The One With All the Breaks
by AnOunceofShag
Summary: "Somehow, it's not surprising that the biggest regret of his life is something he didn't do..." After the deaths of Bob and Johnny, Randy reevaluates his life. Sequel to 'The Learning Curve.' Warnings: mature language, sexual themes, homophobia, depictions of violence
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

He let him go.

Johnny was resisting, and Randy couldn't bring himself to beat him. Not again. That's why Bob's dead. That's why Johnny's in the hospital. Because Randy refused to act. Refused to man up.

Randy grits his teeth and coils the bedspread around his palm. He's always too much in his own head. That's probably why he's always been so intent on filling it with equations and facts of history and sentence diagrams and Grand Solutions to the World's Problems. So it doesn't have room for anything else. But that trick has lost its potency, if it ever did work. Now, the thoughts he can't stop permeate from his mind to his body, and the stomach-curdling sickness of regret obliterates everything else. He's vomited twice today.

Somehow, it's not surprising that the biggest regret of his life is something he didn't do. Something he passively _let_. That's all he's ever done, come to think of it. His dad is right. He's a pussy.

He let Bob persuade him into heavy drinking, fast rides, and jumping kids for kicks because he liked the rush of hanging around someone dangerous, because he liked feeling like he was cool, a real man. He let Paul... But he doesn't want to think about Paul. He doesn't want to think about Bob, either. He doesn't want to think about anyone.

Even now, in his great moment of protest–his final fuck you to the whole asinine system of violence and class warfare–what is he doing but _not_ doing? Randy doesn't know if cutting out on the rumble is the right move, but it's too late to go back on that decision now. He swallows and checks the time, the movement of his throat pressing against the top button of his collared shirt. He always wears them tightly–he likes to feel constrained. It's twelve after ten, and the mayhem has already started.

Lord knows his friends are going to ostracize him for refusing to show. Especially Dave. They'll call him a wimp, claim his (in)action is akin to spitting on his best friend's grave. Maybe they'll even teach him a lesson he'd rather not learn. But he tells himself he doesn't care. Randy's seen too much to imagine fists will solve their feud with the greasers. Drunken teenagers going at each other like wild animals won't bring Bob back or honor his memory. Dead is dead.

He finds himself reaching for the five-by-eight frame on his bedside table. He wishes he could stop torturing himself like this, but he can't. Before Bob died, this picture sat there like an afterthought, half-hidden under a spelling bee ribbon that had fallen off of his display rack above the bed. When Wanda comes every Tuesday and Thursday, she always does a quick job of cleaning, which leaves the nicknacks and photographs to collect dust. Now, the dust has been swiped off the glass, replaced instead with his oily fingerprints from the hundreds of times he's touched it lately.

They're ten years old, and it's the summer of '59, back when Bob was still called Bobby. Bobby's slinging an arm around Randy's shoulder, light streaming through a clearing in the towering trees. They're dressed in their scouting uniforms: Randy's khaki knee-highs neatly pressed, his shirt adorned with merit patches, although Bob's bare-chested. Randy can't remember why anymore, and now he'll never know. Bob's yellow neckerchief hangs sloppily down his front, blue stains dot his face and skinny chest from the prank he just pulled with the food coloring.

That was the summer they became friends, the only two boys from their elementary school sent away for three months to upstate New York near Lake Placid. They had been in the same class in fourth grade just a month before camp started, and Bob had snickered in the back of the classroom every time Randy's hand waved enthusiastically to answer a question. But somehow, all of Bob's suave contempt for the teacher's pet changed at camp, when two scared boys were sent thousands of miles away from home for the very first time, when two scared boys found comfort in each because they were the only familiar faces.

The Bobby who'd once been the ringleader of the boys who bullied Randy for being dorky became the Bobby who challenged any boy who dared do what he once had. That first summer, Bob's shadow of tuff had fallen over him, and consequentially, no one ever bothered Randy again. Later, Bob got wilder and crueler as they grew up, testing his limits but never finding them, and Randy didn't stand up against him. Not when Bob always stood up for him.

They shared a dorm at Randy's mother's request, and Randy would sneak into Bob's bunk and two of them would read _Hardy Boys_ novels and _Boys' Life_ back issues to each other by a flashlight, sometimes falling asleep together, much to the frustration of the troop leader. That stopped when they were thirteen, when they woke up one morning and the front of Randy's pajama pants were wet. They never talked about it, but after that, Bob didn't let Randy hold his hand when they were alone anymore.

In a lot of ways, their friendship was not merely a continuation of their reckless summers, it _was_ their reckless summers. Bob was the same boy at eighteen that he'd been at ten. The only difference was that food fights and stealing their troop leaders' trousers and replacing the lyrics of the camp song with bawdy and scintillating verses became breaking a little kid's arm, pulling a blonde's head back by her ponytail and spitting into her mouth before coercing her into the backseat of the Mustang.

Bob couldn't differentiate between petty Boy Scout crimes and unchecked cruelties. And Randy's feeble attempts to stop him only assured Bob that he was on the right track, that his actions were impressive and daring and that secretly, Randy admired him for them. The sick thing was, Randy did admire him for them. It was a relief to let go of his seriousness, his morality, his burden of obligation, if only vicariously.

What always felt like a life-or-death situation to Randy was nothing more than a laugh to Bob. Even–Randy's throat knots and he chokes down a swallow just to think about it–even his biggest secret.

Randy had suspicions that Bob had suspicions, but he wasn't sure he knew until he really did. He's–he _was_–the only person to have ever walked in on them besides Darrel Curtis from the football team.

It was springtime, school was almost out. Paul had Randy on the floor of his bedroom, while his mom was downstairs setting the table, his dad on a business call down the hall. They knew they were being reckless, but at the time it didn't matter, because Paul was about to graduate, and he was going to college, and even if he was local, they knew it was over for them. The risk made it seem more real. Validated whatever they were to each other, in some strange way. They were so focused on getting off that they didn't even hear the door creak when Bob let himself in.

Afterwards, Bob and Randy didn't see each other for four days, until Bob stopped by his house again and told him they were going to The Way Out. It was an order. Randy was pretty sure he was going to get killed, that there'd be an ambush waiting for him. But it was just the two of them, Bob smirking the whole time and flirting with the waitress like he hadn't a care in the world. After they ordered, while they were eating, out of the blue Bob said, "You better start using a raincoat."

Randy, red-faced and furious, muttered through his teeth, "It's not like I can get knocked up."

"You can still get VD. You don't want the clap– trust me on that one." He chuckled to himself. Randy's reputation and maybe even his life hinged on Bob's response, and Bob thought the whole thing was a huge joke.

Randy was holding back angry tears when the waitress came by with the check. Randy started pulling out his wallet but Bob said, "I got it," and handed her enough cash to cover both of them. He was always covering both of them.

Bob said, easily, naturally, "Relax, Adderson. I'm not going to tell anybody. Think I want people to know my best friend likes to get his shit packed?"

Randy slammed back his chair, the metallic frame teetering nosily as he stood up to leave.

"Sit down." He did. Bob slid an entire bottle of Christian Brothers brandy at him under the table, cap still intact. "Thought you could use a drink." He waved a second bottle, an unopened bottle of vodka ,at him and bit at the lid, untwisting it with his teeth before spitting it out. "I could use one too." Randy had never drank so much in his whole life.

That was the night they jumped Johnny.

Randy stares at the picture of the two of them. Back when they were young and innocent, if they ever were, if that word means anything. If innocence means you're too naive, too thoughtless to understand the consequences of your actions, then Bob died an innocent. Bob lived to do and feel. It's Randy who lived to think.

Randy swallows. He's been having nightmares, waking up in a thick coat of sweat, frantically, instinctually trying to wipe it off him. In his dreams, he's covered in blood again, and it's hard to separate the night terrors from reality at first.

Truth is, that blood is never going to leave him. There's a whole part of the night that's blotted out of his memory. From the moment Bob died until the moment he found himself at the police station, soaked in his best friend's blood, staring ahead, body shaking. He smelled. There was so much blood that the strong wet metal musk of it radiated off of him. All he remembers of that missing hour is the smell.

He remembers the detective asking him the same questions over and over as he numbly stared off into the distance, unable to bring himself to say or do anything. The cop helped him get undressed, collected his clothing as evidence, gave him the state-supplied jail uniform they give to drunks who've vomited on their clothes. Randy gave his statement, heard his voice, monotone, telling the cop Johnny had been acting in self defense. On the ride home, his dad scolded him for going to the police first, when his own father is a lawyer and he should know better.

The knife cut an artery. That's why there was so much blood, why it came out so quickly, why he died so quickly, why it spurted like that. Randy's taken an anatomy class, but he would know even if he hadn't because of hunting.

His first kill was a stomach wound, the bullet penetrated the deer in its side. He was twelve years old. He remembers the deer taking off in the snow, stumbling pathetically as it tried to run, too late. He remembers trekking over with the rest of the hunting party, his father's friends congratulating him. That doe ran for hours, bleeding out slowly and painfully as they followed her trail of blood, Randy's fingers frozen stiff. He remembers how his dad taught him to field dress the deer, a nice way of saying take its guts out. He remembers how the skin looked peeled open, exposing the inside of the body, the arrangement of the organs under the ribs. It's crazy how similar people and animals are when you see them from the inside. Even the blood smells the same.

In fact, Randy's starting to think there's no difference.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Randy puts the photograph face-down on the night table. He's knows he's going to pick it up again, lose more hours staring and remembering, but for now, he's mustered up enough loyalty to his mom to make an appearance downstairs. He's spent so much time locked up in his bedroom since Bob's death. Every hour he doesn't speak, doesn't eat, she grows more concerned. She doesn't say anything–she doesn't have to. Her quick, worried glances, knocks at his door with peace offerings of biscuits and tea, her soft hand reaching for his chin, kissing his forehead, keeping her eyes on him as long as possible...tell him enough. She's the reason he's not leaving town tonight.

Randy presses his hands on his knees and pushes himself off the bed. If he doesn't force himself to get up now, he won't get up all. He hopes he'll find his mom in the living room, so he can say a few words and then sneak back upstairs, but he stops at the view of his father, lounging in the largest leather armchair, reading the paper.

Mr. Adderson ruffles the paper out in mild disapproval and without looking up asks, "Why aren't you at the rumble?"

Randy looks over his shoulder, which is stupid. He's been an only child for six years now. Of course there's no one behind him. He raises his chin, straightens his spine to its longest extent.

"First of all, how do you know about that? Secondly, aren't you pleased I'm not out on the streets committing felonies? I need a clean record to get into Duke." Randy pounds down the remaining four steps with as much affronted dignity as he can muster. He's not going to let him get to him, not this time.

When his father peers at him from under the paper, all Randy can see of his face is the aquiline bridge of his nose (identical to Randy's own) and his scowling eyes. "Mr. Cohen is one of my clients, if you've forgotten." David's father, Randy remembers; he owns a small-scale oil company Mr. Adderson's firm represents. "Word gets around," Mr. Adderson continues. "And no, I wouldn't say I'm pleased. The Sheldon boy was supposedly your _friend_." He elongates the word 'friend,' his deep voicing hitching upward at the end as if it were a question. "You know perfectly well the police won't go after an Adderson. What are you doing moping around in your room while the rest of your crew is fighting?"

"I'm sorry I'm not breaking the law to your satisfaction, Dad," Randy snaps, his right hand instinctually coiling into a fist. He's not having this. Not now. Not after everything. He's done with that man's petty pissing contests. "Strangely enough, I thought as a lawyer you'd appreciate-"

"Spare me the ethics lecture, Randall. You know how trite I find them. And I would get off that high horse if I were you. Don't think it's passed my notice that little hoodlum you so charmingly invited over for dinner last month was the one to do in the Sheldon boy. I warned you about him."

Johnny Cade. Randy squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push past the memory, but he can't push Johnny away, any more than he can Bob.

The image of him, that first time in library, flashes distinctly in his mind: sulking at the door like he had a personal vendetta against the world, refusing to speak to him, unwilling to look him in the eye, letting out frustrated swears. Randy remembers his own actions: how he'd scornfully eyed Johnny's shoes and thought _secondhand_, eyed his slicked-up hair and thought _white trash_, eyed his slouch and thought _loser JD with an attitude problem, a waste of my time_.

Randy doesn't remember when he recognized Johnny's front for what it was: an attempt to hide insecurity and fear, an attempt to hide abuse, an attempt to pretend he didn't care. Randy doesn't remember when his obsession with having to do everything perfectly–including tutoring some low I.Q. hood–turned into actually caring about his student. And when that concern turned to love. But it had.

He wishes it hadn't. None of this would have ever happened.

"You don't know anything about it," Randy says, voice brittle.

"No. What I do know is that my son is the only member of Southern Hills Country Club between the ages of fifteen to twenty to not show up to defend the Sheldon boy's honor."

"Who cares about a fight at a time like this? Bob's dead!" Randy shouts. "I never want to fight again. I never want-"

"Spoken like a true man."

"Do you I any idea of what I've been going through lately?" Randy's screaming at the top of his lungs now, so loud that he feels a painful pull on his vocal chords. "Any fucking idea? My friend is dead. He died in my arms like I was in some goddamn Shakespeare play. These things aren't supposed to happen in real life. To me. I can't-"

"Randall?" his father interrupts, perfectly calm.

"What?" Randy hisses. "What the hell do you want?"

"Keep your voice at a reasonable volume." The local paper covers his face again.

Randy's ready to shout again, but he stops, opened mouthed, at the sight of Johnny's picture on right upper corner of the front page. His fist uncurls and he rubs his sweaty palm against his trousers. The same trousers he's been wearing for three days straight.

Randy's standing close enough to his father that he can see the details of the photograph. Johnny's in desperate need of a haircut, his bangs fall past his eyebrows. He's looking to the left of the camera, and his mouth is quirked in a not-quite-smile. He looks younger–it's probably last year's mandatory yearbook portrait.

Randy turns on his heel, headed for the kitchen to find his mom when his dad shouts his final warning. "And don't use foul language in my house!"

His dad is not one to be satisfied with the last word. He needs the last paragraph. And even that's not enough. He needs the entire conversation.

**#**

Mrs. Adderson is filling up the kettle, her back turned to Randy. She's wearing her red polka dress, the one that's a little dated with a full skirt. It's her favorite. Her white apron has a bow that rests in the center of her lower back with perfectly even loops, perfectly draped straps. His mom has always been precise about her appearance. That's probably where he gets it from.

"How much did you hear?" Randy asks as he slumps into a seat at the kitchen table. Underneath the tabletop, in purple and green crayon, are doodles that he and Jenny drew when they were little, still undiscovered by his parents.

His mom turns to him and gives a sad smile. "All of it."

"I apologize for my language." He can't remember the last time he said sorry to his dad, who's always demanding an apology, but he says it freely to his mom, who never asks for one.

She takes the seat across from him. "It's an understandable reaction after all you've been through lately. Your father shouldn't have instigated you."

It's rare she says anything against him. Even though Randy can tell she knows when the man's in the wrong, her approach has always been the same: keep a sweet, even demeanor, calm the family down with soft words and warm food. She's as old-fashioned as they come. In all honestly, Randy has to admit her charming usually works.

"I know he's hard on you," she says.

Randy nods. He looks over at the kettle, but it's just been put on, which means he has to stick around until it whistles, and for at least another three minutes while the teabag steeps, and another five minutes while he drinks the tea. He really doesn't want to have this conversation, but there's no avoiding it.

"Your father cares. He just doesn't know what to say to you about what happened. That's how he shows he's worried. He's a good man." She believes it. Randy guesses she's right. It's not like his dad abuses alcohol, it's not like his dad has ever raised a hand against him.

But they're not close. Not in the way Bob was buddy-buddy with his dad, paling around and never getting in trouble for his antics. Not in the stubbornly proud way his other friends' dads act, raising up their boys to fill in their shoes once they retire.

Randy's spent seventeen years working his ass off for his own father's approval, spent seventeen years resenting not getting it. Then he met Johnny. Then he learned where Johnny's bruises came from, and he felt disgusted with himself for not being grateful for how good he had it. But his self-disgust hasn't corrected his feelings. It's hasn't made him grateful. If anything, he's more resentful now.

Randy's mom remembers better times, and she brings them up often. The James Adderson she loves is still the dashing Blue Devils football star, class of '45. He was a senior, popular and proud, from a long line of Duke royalty, when she was a shy freshman nursing student residing at the Mary Duke dormitory. The way she tells it, he swept her off her feet at the Homecoming Dance, all classic romance and charm. And though good ol' Jimbo was known to be a heartbreaker, he told her that first night that she was the one, and he never changed his mind. He was fun and ambitious and while he chided her in public, he was secretly warm and affectionate in private. Once they were married, he insisted that she never needed to work and pampered her endlessly.

Even Randy remembers a time when his father was different. He was hard on Randy, sure, but he didn't seek out Randy's every insecurity to exploit. He didn't spend his time looking for reasons to disapprove of his son, to distance himself. Randy didn't get it when he was a kid, but to some extent, he gets it now. Doesn't mean he allows himself to put up with it.

He changed after Jenny got hit. The room of hers is left untouched, all of her little girls things placed out as if any day she will return, even though it was six years ago that she died. Her second grade portrait is hangs on the wall; she watches over as they eat dinner, smiling down with a missing front tooth year after year, while Randy's portrait changes each September. Keeping everything the same was his dad's insistance–not his mom's, like Mr. Adderson makes it out to be.

In his grief, his dad got hard, more like the dictator of a small country than the head of a household. In her grief, his mom got softer, as if she could make up for her daughter's loss by becoming the whole world's mother. Top parent of the PTO, head volunteer at their church's soup kitchen. The June Cleaver who happily hosted all the sleepovers to the gratitude of the other boys' weary moms.

The tea kettle whistles and startles him out of his thoughts. He looks up at his mom, who gives him a worried glance before she stands up from the table. He must have been lost in his thoughts for a long time.

She pours the steaming water into his cup and unravels the twine of a Lipton teabag, plops it inside. Randy watches the water grow murky. She takes the seat across from him and prepares her own tea in the same manner.

"That boy...the one you tutored," she begins, stirring in a teaspoon of sugar, uncomfortable.

"The one who killed Bob?" Randy snaps. He hears the sound of his mom taking a deep, controlled breath, but he doesn't look up from the teacup. Randy sighs, too. "I'm sorry for lashing out."

"You don't have to be."

"Look, I know it was self defense–or what's the legal term again? defense of a third party–but I'm still angry." That Ponyboy kid might have died if Johnny hadn't done it, but it doesn't make Randy hate Johnny any less. He hates himself an equal amount, for letting Johnny go, he holds himself equally culpable. He holds Bob culpable, too. But he can't hate Bob, now that he's paid the price.

"About that boy..." she repeats.

"What about him?" She's probably going to tell him whether or not he participates in the conversation, and Randy wants to get it over with.

"He was in the paper again, along with those other two boys who helped save those children." Randy looks up and sees this distant, admiring look in her eyes, and he realizes: saving children must make Johnny a saint her book. A classic move, coming from her.

It's the reason why she took to Johnny in the first place. That day Randy brought him around for dinner, and Johnny jetted out the door, she shot an uncustomary scowl at her husband. Randy remembers pounding up the stairs to grab the sweaters, his mom mimicking his own actions at the table, scurrying around, hastily collecting leftovers for that _'poor, shy boy.'_ In the following weeks, after everything went to hell between Johnny and him, his mom must have asked about Johnny a dozen times, until Randy finally shouted at her to shut up. In Johnny, Mrs. Adderson didn't see hair grease and jeans. She saw a neglected child. The 'save the poor, underprivileged children' schtick is what she lives for.

Randy doesn't care to admit it, but that's part of what attracted Johnny to him, too. He liked being have the upper-hand, being the leader, being the man for once. He was proud of himself for adding unsubtle moral lessons in Johnny's school lessons; he was proud of himself for guiding Johnny through his first sexual experiences. Randy wanted to save him. He wanted to take care of him. He wanted to mold him. Johnny was right. He was pretty damn patronizing.

"He's not doing well, Randy."

"You know how papers spin things," Randy says dismissively. He takes a sip of his tea, the pipping hot, bitter blackness scorching his throat. "They just want to add more drama to headlines. I was on newspaper committee freshman year, and for every truth there a half-dozen exaggerations and at least one lie."

He asked Ponyboy, trying to play it off like he didn't care about Johnny too deeply, using the most dramatic scenario because he wanted it contradicted. _"...he might die?"_ But Pony confirmed it.

Even still, Randy's pushed his fears aside. He knows exactly the type of kid Ponyboy is. He's seen him sneak in novel reading during their five minute water breaks, he's seen his eyes glaze over when they're running like he's daydreaming about long lost places. The Ponyboys of the world let their imagination run wild and always fear the worst. Randy's been reminding himself of that fact whenever his mind strays to Johnny. Johnny's fine. They can go back to hating each other, or loving each other, in a week or so when he's discharged.

"You can pretend you don't care all you like," Mrs. Adderson says, "but I saw the way you looked at him that time he came for dinner."

Randy checks his mother's face, but she's doesn't seem to be implying anything untoward. As far his knows, his parents have no idea.

"And I listened to you go on and on about his academic progress before he ever stepped a foot in this house. I know you care about him."

"You're right." Randy gives her a rueful smile, and runs his fingertip around the edge of his teacup. "You're always right, mom. I just need to give myself time before I see him again."

"You might not have time."

"Come on, mom. Stop being dramatic."

"I do have a nursing degree, even if I never used it. It doesn't look good," she says. "The latest article was an update on that boy's condition. His back is broken, and third degree burns cover seventy percent of his body."

Randy stiffens. This is the first he's heard of that. He only knew that Johnny was in an intensive care unit, with the vague phrase "critical condition" describing his injuries, no details. He hasn't read the latest articles. He'd meticulously read and reread the first, the one that focused most strongly on Ponyboy and his brothers' situation, but he's been doing his best to avoid any mention of the whole story after that. It's too painful. He hasn't wanted to think about Johnny, not while he's still mourning Bob.

His mom can't be right. She's not allowed to be. The way it will work out, what Randy has been banking on, is that when Johnny comes back at school, the two of them will avoid each other, or else make up. He's spent hours and hours actively not thinking about Johnny, scrapping away each imagining of every possible scenario of their bumping into each other. Now, a sick fear is growing in the pit of his stomach. _His back is broken, and third degree burns cover seventy percent of his body. _He wonders where he was burnt. If it was his face. He wonders if Johnny's even going to look like himself. If he's disfigured or disabled now.

"Does that mean he's going to be in a chair..." Randy swallows.

"I don't know, sweetheart. Most likely, if he lives."

Randy shudders. He can't imagine how hard being in chair is. He's never had to think about it in any substantial way before, but now that he _is_ thinking about it, the east side of town doesn't have evenly paved sidewalks, and every identical shitty shack that passes for a house has steps that lead up to the front door. How will Johnny get in and out of his own house, let alone get around?

Johnny'll be stuck in that repulsive shithole, with those repulsive abusers he calls parents, powerless, day after day. And at school–he'll have to use the ramps and elevators, and Randy knows the other students will avoid looking at him, avoid talking to him because they won't know what to say. Randy acted just like the rest of the student body when Suellen March broke her back riding and three months later showed up at Rogers in a chair. If Randy was ashamed of his discomfort and avoidance of Sue before, it's a thousandfold now, now that Johnny will be in the same position. He assures himself he's not going to act that way this time, no matter how uncomfortable it is to talk to him, no matter if he's not sure where to look when he speaks.

If Randy had only stood up to Bob like he knew he should, if he had only done the right thing, Johnny would have never killed Bob, never run away, never jumped into a burning building like a crazy person. It's too late to change the past, but it's not too late to start doing the right thing from now on.

It's the image of Johnny, trapped in that house, trapped with his sickeningly negligent parents, that sparks the first genuine, absolute certainty Randy's felt since he was a little boy. For once in his life, Randy is not going to passively _let_. No matter what condition Johnny's stuck in, Rand is going to face it. He's going to apologize, he's going to help in his care. He's going to make things right. He'll be over that damn house everyday, lording his status over the Cades, threatening them with lawsuits, nursing Johnny if it comes to that.

"What time do visiting hours start?"

"Nine o'clock, most hospitals. Sometimes ten."

Randy's a morning person. Since grade school, he's been that bright and cheery boy, two sharpened pencils neatly lined up at the corner of his desk, swinging his legs under his chair, ready to begin at eight am sharp. But he's been sleeping through his alarm lately. Sleeping as long and as often as he can, because even nightmares are better than reality lately.

"Can you make sure I'm up by seven?"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Randy strides confidently into the ICU lobby, or at least, with the appearance of confidence, and grabs the shoulder of the nearest nurse. "I'm here to see Johnny Cade." Simple, matter-of-fact. The impatient directness he's learned garners instant obedience. Having a father like his has its uses.

"Are you a member of the family?" The nurse sounds uncomfortable. She shifts her weight, resting her clipboard on her newly pushed-out hip, unconsciously tidying a curl of her hair behind her ear.

"Yes," Randy lies, smooth and convincingly. "Which room is his?"

"I'm sorry," the nurse hesitates, "I'm sorry sir, but he's no longer with us."

"Oh? What hospital did you send him to?" Randy crosses his arms and towers over her, giving her a clear signal he's not convinced by her lie. His mom said it was possible that visiting was restricted to family members, considering burns carry a great risk of infection. But it doesn't matter whether or not the location of Johnny's room is restricted information: Randy's getting what he wants. She's a young nurse, nervous and new by the looks over, and it should be easy to make her give in.

She gives him a pained look and eyes another, older nurse as if asking for help, but the other nurse shrugs and goes back to writing on her own clipboard. "No, I'm afraid you've misunderstood."

"So he's been taken out of intensive care?" Randy asks. "Did you move him to a different ward? What ward?"

"I'm sorry, but he passed away late last night."

Randy stares at her in confusion and then clears his throat. "He what?"

"I'm very sorry for your loss."

"No," Randy says, fast and rushed. "I think there's a misunderstanding. You're not listening to me. The patient's name is Johnny Cade. Check again." Randy hovers so far over the nurse winces, and suddenly, alarmingly his own stance reminds him of his dad on a business call. Randy retreats back into his space. But even with his demands, even with his aggression, the nurse is not checking Johnny's file like he told her to. She's looking at him with this sad, helpless, pitying expression. Randy wants to slap it off her face.

"I'm very sorry," she repeats. She walks away.

For a moment Randy stands there, hands at his sides, not fully comprehending the meaning of her words. Because that's not how life works. Not for him. He's the west side rich kid. He has a Mustang and he's Duke bound and he's dating a cheerleader, at least publicly. What did he tell that greaser kid? He's the one with all the breaks.

Now he's broken.

_Now longer with us. _How dare she, Randy fumes. _Passed away. Asleep. Departed. _Randy hates, hates, hates those euphemisms. First he only feels it, the pure, raw, annihilating hate at the softness of those words, at their lying, cloying falseness, and when he has the sense of mind to realize his hatred, to think about the word, he wishes he could grasp at a stronger word, something that would reach closer to his sudden urge to slap the clipboard out of that nurse's hand and scream at the top of his lungs.

Johnny's dead.

That can't be the truth. It's not allowed to be. Randy was going to apologize, to confess he still loves him, and when Johnny got released, they were going to go back to kissing in secret, and this time, Johnny was going to love him back. Randy had it all figured out. He was up late last night, restless, planning his speech for this morning. He memorized it.

_Look, Johnny, I know you're probably not going to believe me, but I want you to know I'm really sorry for everything that's happened. I mean it. All of it. The truth is..._

And he would squeeze Johnny's hand encouragingly, and Johnny would be just about to admit his own feelings, but would painfully stop himself and dismiss Randy from the room, too wrapped up in everything that happened to forgive just yet. But eventually, over the next month or so, they would keep bumping into each other at school, and shyly avert their eyes, and build up to offering each other compliments. And then Johnny would admit he needed homework help, and soon enough, after Randy taught him something really profound, perhaps explained the hidden depths of a Whitman poem (O You Whom I So Often and Silently Come), Johnny would find it in himself to forgive him...

Jesus. He's not even going to get the chance to reach out and hold Johnny's hand, to comfort him as he quietly and peacefully goes. Christ. Did he die screaming? Was he in pain? This can't be real.

But it is. Nothing is resolved. Nothing will get better. There is no atonement, no forgiveness, no mercy. There's an ending, but no closure. He's too late.

Randy falls on his knees. He can't take it. Not both of them. Not so soon. He's never felt younger in his life. So helpless. So in need of an adult to pick him up and tuck him into bed and lie to him and say it's all going to be okay. He's never felt so old his life. So tired and unafraid, unafraid because the worst thing that could ever happen to him has now happened and there's nothing left in the world to be afraid of.

He sees now that his whole life was a lie. That is was shiny shell of a life, gilded to hide the tarnish, luxuries and ennui and disdain and even The Academy are nothing but a fancy cover up, a way to hid the fact that everyone faces the same, inevitable end. No matter how much you love them. No matter that they _were. _And isn't 'to be' the most astounding and improbable infinitive there is? But you can't know that until the most important people, the people you love and will never get back, simply stop being. They end.

Johnny had dreams, stupid, naive dreams of dying young and gallantly, of sacrificing himself for someone or something greater. He never even had to get drafted, and the bastard got his wish. Randy feels a selfish fury burning inside himself. He despises those kids Johnny saved.

He's always considered himself a utilitarian (he throws around that word when he's feeling insecure; it's a big word). He loosely held the belief that morality is doing what leads to the greatest good for the greatest number of people. But now, Randy doesn't care if it was dozen kids, a hundred kids, the whole world–they're not worth losing Johnny. Fuck morality. Fuck bravery. Where does it get you but a shallow grave at sixteen?

He doesn't know he's screaming and sobbing, pounding his fists against the hospital floor, until a man in white coat is restraining him.

#

The nurse called home, and his dad is on his way to pick him up from the hospital. The doctor, who finally calmed him down, insisted he was in "no condition" to drive himself home. Randy's not sure if that's because of his freak out, or simply a matter of caution, considering the pills they gave him to shut him up.

Randy grips the sink of the ward's bathroom and stares at his face in the mirror: eyes bloodshot and watery, his sandy hair a mess because he was pulling at it, knuckles bruised. He tries to straighten himself out before his dad arrives, but his efforts are fruitless. There's no disguising the fact he's been crying. He presses his forefingers against his temples and rubs in circles, trying to breath in deeply and prepare himself for what's to come: he has to face another lecture about what a wimp he is, how he has to accept the facts, get ahold of himself, grow up and man up.

Randy's numb and out of it by the time his father arrives. He's not sure how much of that is due to the medicine. It takes Mr. Adderson snapping his fingers in Randy's face for him to realize the man's been yelling at him. It's time to go.

In the parking lot, Randy's zoning out when his dad pulls him back so sharply that Randy's neck jerk backs. There is the whizzing sound of a car speeding away, and Randy realizes, rather belatedly, he'd almost walked into oncoming traffic. As the car passes it honks four times, in annoyed, short beeps. Randy barely hears it. He doesn't care. But his father' angry shouting temporarily snaps his mind awake.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Watch where you're going! Do you want to get killed?" His face his beet-red and furious, and he's towering over his son. "How old are you, and you can't cross a parking lot without me holding your goddamn hand!"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Randy shouts right back, his throat sore. He can't take it anymore. All the damn, vile criticism. His dad is always there to make things worse. "I hate you. You know that?"

And there's thick, heavy impact against his face. Randy stumbles, his back hitting and twisting the side-mirror of the car parked behind him.

Randy touches the tender area of his cheek; he stares at his dad. The man has just backhanded him. He's never done that before. Randy's about to start shouting again, tell his dad to go to hell, but the words never leave his throat. Because for a second, he realizes the universe isn't only cruel to him. If he hadn't pulled him back, his father could have lost two children the exact same way.

Randy clears his throat. "Sorry. I wasn't paying attention." But all his dad does in response is shoot him a look of disgust.

They're sitting in the car, staring ahead at the road. Mr. Adderson's radio is tuned to the National Educational Radio Network, which only plays political news or classical music, the depressing war updates or depressing violin notes difficult to decipher beneath the static. Louder than static, an uncomfortable silence hovers between them.

His dad rubs his palm against the steering wheel as he drives, and then clicks his fingernails against it as he waits at a red light. He's staring ahead when he says, too calmly, "Tell me you didn't do that on purpose."

Randy turns to him, so sharp that a hot pain courses through his neck. "Of course not." He checks to make sure his shirt is perfectly tucked in, the folds falling in the right pattern. "I'm not suicidal. Is that what you think of me? I'm so weak I'd try to kill myself?"

Mr. Adderson looks ahead at the road; he doesn't answer. They don't speak for the rest of the ride.

But then they're pulling into the driveway, Mr. Adderson is still staring straight ahead when he says, offhand, "Your account was running low. I stopped by the bank and added three grand this morning." He puts the car in park.

Randy's account wasn't running low. But he understands what his father is getting at. The only language his dad speaks is money. Randy's learned to speak it, too.

"Thanks, dad." He means it. He does.

"Take that nice girl Marcia out on a stake dinner, bill's on me. Go to Sullivan's. Tell them your my boy and you'll get wine on the house. Get out of that bedroom, huh?" His voice is gruff and stiff, but the judgment that so often drives it is missing. From him, that's practically an _I'm sorry for hitting you, kiddo. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm right here if you need me. _

Randy turns to his dad in distrustful surprise, as if any second, he's going to take his kindness back, explain he was only pretending, a verbal sucker punch. But Mr. Adderson doesn't retract his words. The insult doesn't come. He stares at his son expectantly, waiting for the reassurance of his agreement, waiting for Randy to say something, anything, to heal the bad blood between them.

"Yeah, I'll do that," Randy finally says.

"Now, you can take that girl to a nice dinner on my dime, but dessert, kid, that's all on you. Only thing I have to say about dessert is, I don't want to find out I'm going to be a grandfather anytime soon, you hear?" His dad elbows him and chuckles falsely, the trite almost-joke capping off his attempt at reconciliation.

"You really don't have to worry about that," Randy answers dryly.

#

Author's Notes:

Thank you everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I appreciate your feedback and I hope y'all like the story so far. The narrative voice is different than that of 'The Learning Curve' (because Randy's upbringing, education, and family life are very different from Johnny's). However, I'm still sussing out Randy's voice as I write, and it doesn't come to me as naturally as Johnny's did. If you are so inclined, please let me know what you think, especially if you see areas for improvement!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Author's Notes: Sorry this took so long to post. I will try to update future chapters more quickly. Please let me know what you think!

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The waiter presents his offering on a silver tray. He carefully places the dishes in front of them, making a long show of it. Randy's eyes stray to the smear of red sauce that mars the fingertip of his white glove. _Thank God the first course is here,_ Randy thinks as he eyes the crisp pale leaves of lettuce. _Only an hour more to go. _

Marcia gives him a polite smile. She neatly tucks the napkin across her lap. It's uncomfortable, that polite smile. This girl is the queen of inappropriate quips, she cracks jokes that belong in a trucker's mouth, not the painted coral lips of daddy's little favorite. That's partly why Randy likes her. And he does like her. Just not the way he pretends to.

He looks down at his plate. He looks up at her. She seems to be doing the same, shifting around her eyes in an attempt to find a safe place to look while they figure out what to say. This is the first time they've seen each other since the funeral.

"You know," she opens, "if you were trying to impress me, I prefer seafood." She raises an eyebrow at him. Her teasing has a forced, deliberate stretch to it, as if they were on their first date. But she's doing better than he is with easing into conversation, and Randy appreciates her effort.

"I'll take that into account if I ever try to impress you." Randy grins.

Marcia absentmindedly fingers her pearls, pulling them up off her collarbone, lacing the strand between her fingers. Randy wants to stare or look away, and he's glad this instinct is in line with most of the male population's, although he feels it for a different reason. He knows what those pearls represent.

Mrs. Adderson bought them for her. Randy and Marcia had only dating three weeks, and his mom came back from Macy's in a huff, opening and snapping shut the black velour box, sneaking peeks of admiration at the strand of pearls. Her explanation: she 'just couldn't help herself!' Of course Marcia insisted that 'she couldn't, really' in a warm way that meant she could, and his mom watched in pride as Randy hooked the lobster-claw clasp on the nape of Marcia's neck.

Whenever Marcia comes over the house, the two women whisper and giggle together. Mrs. Adderson makes sure to remember Marcia's favorite foods and prepares them just so. They share recipes. They talk about horses and barrel racing, a subject his mom previously had no interest in. Randy's overheard them gripe about fully grown men as if they were sad, helpless beings in desperate need of a woman's care. They've started exchanging _books_. By authoresses. With hunky men on the covers.

And it's clear to Randy why: his mom wants a girl to help pick out her prom dress, her wedding dress, to coo with over a newborn baby. To do everything she'll never get to do with her own little girl. And the only way she'll get that is through his relationships.

It's a real shame he's queer.

"Oh please," Marcia says, "as if you aren't already trying. I can smell the cologne from where I'm sitting." She rolls her eyes.

"That's just my natural male musk, baby." The idle banter's coming easily now.

Marcia snorts. "Right. Well, your natural male musk smells like a Christmas tree with world domination in mind. Just in case you hadn't noticed." She mouths an extra large bite of salad and smiles toothily at him as she munches. She enjoys surprising people: she's tiny and feminine, her bobbed hair sways happily with her bouncy steps, and then she says something crude with a devilish smile. She's trouble, or at least, she goes looking for it. It doesn't surprise him in the least he caught her flirting with that Two-Bit clown.

He doesn't want to think about that night.

A half hour in, and the date is going well. They're waiting on the main course, and so far, they've managed to avoid mentioning anything important, anything that could be interpreted as meaningful or sentimental. They discussed the upcoming Hollywood interpretation of _A Man for All Seasons_, which couldn't possibly match the Tulsa Player's stage production their little coterie attended (to earn extra credit in English last year). They had a strongly worded debate on whether _Revolver_ or _Rubber Soul_ was the more groundbreaking album. They imaginatively speculated on what had happened to Billy Finch, the boy who ran away in fifth grade. Marcia proposed he was now a circus acrobat, madly in love with the girl who rode the elephants. Randy proposed he'd become a Soviet spy and invented a backstory for him with ideas of Russia largely influenced by _Doctor Zhivago_. Marcia complained about her mother. Randy complained about his father. And then they gossiped about several of their classmates, who deserved it, really, particularly as they weren't there to defend themselves.

The food came.

There had been a faint, noxious smell in the air, but Randy chalked it off to his own anxious disposition. He thought he was imagining things, or exaggerating things, he thought it was his terrible mind alone that kept bringing him back to that night. He was holding Bob, feeling his best friend's blood soak up his sweater, staring down at him numbly, unable to speak, unable to stop him stopping, while his mouth prattled idly along about acrobats and Beatlemania. But when the steak is presented to him, one sprig of parsley sprinkled on top, the meat pink and rare, the blood spilling out around the sides–just like he's always ordered it, Randy knows it isn't his imagination.

_That_ smell. He lurches forward, his hands around his stomach. "Excuse me," he manages to blurt out before he makes his way to the men's room.

His throat is still raw with acid when he takes his seat across from Marcia for the second time that night. "Sorry about that," he says. Randy pulls at the top button of his shirt, the one that brings together his collar.

"Well, when nature calls..." Marcia begins with a smirk, and Randy relaxes his shoulders. She's let him off the hook.

The blood still smells as strongly as it did before he puked his salad up, but Randy's prepared for it this time. With all the fortitude he can muster, he picks up the steak knife by the its antler handle and punctures the meat with his fork. He tries not to notice the blood that trickles out, and begins to cut. He feels sickened, but he does it. He won't let his memories weaken him. They way he sees it, there are two essential human instincts, fucking and eating, and he's already screwed up about one of them.

Marcia continues the conversation as they eat, deliberately keeping her voice spry, pretending she hasn't noticed his lack of appetite. She picks up from where they left off, which was mocking Cindy Bradshaw, the perky, good-two-shoes president of the French Club who gave a blow job to a greaser (says everybody) and who recently dropped hints about her future Prom Queen coronation.

"Please," Marcia rolls her eyes. "She actually thinks she has a chance. Can you believe that? With Bob out of the picture, it's the two of us who are sure to make King and Queen."

"What. did. you. say." It's not a question, it's a demand. His words are controlled and clear and quiet.

Marcia winces, but it's not genuine, it's the self-mocking wince of a person who thinks she's said something deliciously edgy. "Too soon?"

"You're goddamn right it's too soon," Randy snaps.

"Look, Randy, I miss him just as much as anybody else-"

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"No," Marcia says, and she crosses her arms and frowns pityingly at him, the first hint of truth she's revealed the whole night. She lowers her voice when she says, "You do." As if she's trying to spare him.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Randy asks. He saws into his steak, the serrated edge of the knife splitting the flesh with faint incongruity.

"Randy, you can't put your heart on your sleeve like that."

"Like what?" He shoves a large piece of meat in his mouth and chews with unbridled aggression.

"You know like what. Skipping out on the rumble. Moping in your bedroom for a week. Crying in public. Everybody saw you cry at the funeral. Do you know what the boys are saying?"

"What's your point?"

Marcia swallows. "I don't know. It's just not what people do. You know, you have to act cool about it. Make snide comments to make yourself feel better. Drink your problems away." Marcia tucks a dark curl behind her ear. "You have to protect your reputation. We both know the drill."

"Maybe I'm sick of the drill."

"Maybe that's why everyone is sick of you!" she exclaims. She pinches her lips, trying to control the volume and the frustration of her voice. "What I'm trying to say is...being so public about your grief betrays the whole system. One person starts in, and then no one can keep up the charade. Why do you think the whole group has been avoiding you like the plague? It's not just that you backed out on the rumble. I mean, of course they're pissed about that, but that's not all there is. They don't want to see you feel, Randy. It's contagious. No one wants to fall into that hole. We have to keep our cool."

Randy traces the knife into the pool of steak sauce and blood on his plate, clearing out a temporary line of white porcelain that seconds later is re-baptised in the russet liquid. "I'm sick of keeping my cool," he whispers. "I'm done with the whole mess."

"So what's your solution?" Marcia asks. "Moping around, feeling sorry for yourself, feeling sorry for Bob. Is that going to bring him back?"

"Shut up. Right now," he warns. "You shut the hell up." He sounds frighteningly like his father, even to his own ears.

"Listen to me Randy, I'm telling you this because I care about you. I'm looking out for you–_as always_. You have no idea how much I look out for you. I'm doing you a favor and telling the truth because no one else will. So stop acting high and mighty because you think you're the only one who's sad Bob's gone. You're not. We all miss Bob. You're just the only one naive enough to show it."

"You're a real bitch."

"God, Randy. You know what? I can't do this anymore. I've got enough on my plate getting Cherry through this mess, and I can't take care of you, too. Especially if you're going to be such an ass about it." She stands up, pushes back her chair. Reaches behind her neck. Randy doesn't know how she could have done it so quickly–the pearls clatter on the table.

"This is me breaking up with you."

Randy stands up and kicks back his chair. "What?" he shouts. An old couple to the right of them murmur about the rudeness of young people. Randy drops his voice, but it's just as domineering in a whisper. "Don't be ridiculous, Marcia. You don't mean it. Now put the necklace back on."

Marcia shakes her head. "It's not like we were ever truly dating, anyway." She looks up at him, guilty at her implication, and then quickly continues. Randy is too startled, too speechless, to interrupt the truths he doesn't want to hear.

"Think I didn't notice you only touched me when people were looking? Think I didn't guess the reason for the group dates and double dates and the invitations to dinner with your parents? The reason you never wanted to be alone?" In her voice is a sad timber of feeling that she's stopped trying to hide.

"What are you implying, Marcia?" Randy asks, voice clipped.

"Do you really want me to say it?" She crosses her arms defiantly.

"If that's what you think, then why didn't you break up with me before?"

Marcia shrugs. "Same reason I grieve privately. Keeping up appearances."

"Marcia, listen. I can explain-"

"I don't want to hear it. It's not my business and I don't care. Really, I don't. You showed me a good time. It was nice for us to be admired by everybody at school, nice for us to be talked about. Nice to be up for Prom Queen. That's all I was after anyway. A good yearbook picture. Something to show my grandkids," she mutters wryly.

"Jesus, this conversation is way too serious for me. You know, it would never have worked out with us, even if... You're too serious, Randy. You have to learn to see life as it is. One big, fat hilarious joke. If you can't see it that way, the joke's always going to be on you."

"You're really dumping me, huh?"

"Yeah. I guess I am. Friends, though?"

He pauses, torn between his instinct to humiliate her for humiliating him, and his rational understanding that this was inevitable, and that she has, after all, been very good to him, keeping her suspicions private. He nods. "Friends."

"Well, I guess I should..."

"Stay for dessert?"

"Why not?" Marcia sighs and takes her seat.

Randy takes his. He slides the pearls over to her. "Put the necklace back on."

"Randy, I said-"

"I know. I know. We're over. But we're going to ween it off over the next few weeks like we just grew out of each other. Otherwise you'll to break my mother's heart."

Marcia gives him an exasperated look. She takes the pearls back, raveling and unraveling them around her forefinger as if still deciding. Randy watches her face change to a look of resolve, and she hooks the necklace on, feeling for the clasp behind her head. "I'm only doing this because I love your mom," she says pointedly.

Randy stares at his steak. He closes his eyes, imaging where he'd be by now, if he had the heartlessness, the guts, to take his money and his Mustang and ride away into the sunset like some beatnik on a pilgrimage. To leave this place, leave the people who left him, for somewhere else. For somewhere better. To cross the expanse of the American West. To settled in San Francisco. Where there are people like him. People who come to escape, who have seen enough and want to live pure and unencumbered, unafraid and open to love. Open to sharing. Open to being ridiculed for sentiment. Open to creating a braver and kinder world. But when he opens his eyes, he's at the steakhouse, sitting across from Marcia. His dreams are dreams, and they'll stay that way.

He has no choice but to continue their charade of being Roger's latest power couple. He has no choice but to go back to his piano lessons and football practice and community service projects and riding sessions and rat race rat race rat race as if Bob and Johnny never existed, as if there is no more to life than to move further and faster along, stepping on as many people as possible to get to the end.

Randy will go home tonight. He'll pretend he's asleep and let his mom kiss his forehead when she sneaks into his room to check up on him. And starting Monday, tomorrow, he'll be a good boy again. He'll bring home straight A's and win games and find a new fake girlfriend and make his parents proud.

"Me too."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Darrel Curtis. The quarterback. The big shot. Boy of the Year. Back when Randy was an underclassman, Darrel Curtis was God at Rogers.

Randy spent all day at school Monday building up the courage to ask Ponyboy, searching for him in the hallways. Which is stupid, being anxious to talk to him–the kid's a nobody Freshman. But his anxiety was wasted, because it turned out Ponyboy hasn't returned to school yet. Afterwards, Randy considered asking that Two-Bit clown, but it turns out he was skipping. He could wait until one of them shows up, but that's too risky. If Randy waits any longer, it might be too late. Darrel's his last choice, but he doesn't know of anybody else who'd have the information. No specifics have been printed in the papers. Last choice is still a choice.

So now he's here, shades on, spying like a creep on the twin house where Darrel's roofing company is working. He hopes Darrel's still with them, hopes he's on site for the day. And yet, a small, cowardly part of Randy hopes he won't catch him after all. Randy's never had the guts to carry a conversation with him, not after what Darrel saw.

There he is.

Randy sits in his car gathering courage. The engine is running and the radio turned up, playing a song his mom loves, one of those numbers sung by a crooner with soprano backup, a big build up, and a lot of cheese. _You are my special angel, sent from up above. The Lord smiled down on me, and sent an angel to love..._ The tune is out of date, almost by ten years now, but Randy likes it. It reminds him of being a little kid and "four o'clock help time": a daily event his mother invented so she could get Jenny and him settled down enough to cook a family dinner. This was one of those songs she liked to play as she prepared their meals and pretended to let the children "help." Randy would roll dough into little shapes or stir sauce or taste test while his mother ran between the oven and the record player to place the needle back to the beginning of the 45.

_I feel your touch, your warm embrace, and I'm in heaven again... _Randy mouths the words, takes a sigh, and abruptly shuts off the car, cutting off the song just before the end. If he waited until it was over, he might have changed his mind and drive away.

He slams the car door shut behind himself. He can do this. He can face this. He can.

He wouldn't have know who Darrel works for if Darrel hadn't had a job fixing the roof of Randy's next-door-neighbor last July. It was a hot Saturday morning when his mom had a few ladies over for lemonade and strawberry cake to celebrate her birthday. Randy was outside in the front yard with them but not with them, reading his summer assignments on the cast iron love-seat under the willow tree that his mother had painted white, occasionally smiling up when one of the housewives referenced what a "fine, young man" he'd grown up to be. But then the workers showed up next door, the drilling and hammering began, and the party was ruined.

Mr. Adderson's pounding on the Mr. Grant's door was nearly as loud as the worker's tools. To prove what real men they were, they had a shouting match. Mr. Adderson asked what the world was coming to when a man couldn't have a bit of peace and quiet on a fine Saturday morning, especially on the occasion of his wife's birthday. Mr. Grant remarked he couldn't believe an American would question his right to do whatever he goddamn pleased on his own property. Did Mr. Adderson own his roof? Did Mr. Adderson propose we all ought to do away with ownership all together? Was a he communist? This was followed by more spurious name calling and accusations on both sides.

That's when Randy saw him, Darrel, with a beam on his shoulder and a condescending expression aimed at the middle-aged men as he passed them. Darrel caught Randy's eye right back, and the two of them stared at each other for a second in recognition, but said nothing. Randy turned his eyes back to his book, Darrel to his work.

Twenty minutes later the argument was resolved in a handshake and cigar session. The workers had taken the fall and been fired. Randy remembered the name of the company painted on the side of the white Volkswagen, _Roof Troop: Window Treatments &amp; Roof Repair, call for a free consultation_. Randy never could figure out why service industries always insist on puns. Monday afternoon, it didn't take long for Randy to find the company in the phone book and find out their latest contract location with a little sweet talk.

It had been a shock. Randy believed Darrel'd be going places, working class or not. Randy thought he'd get a full ride somewhere, get some hotshot job, prove Mr. Adderson's constant insistence that American Dream is attainable for everybody, if only lazy people'd pick themselves up by their bootstraps. The Darrel Curtises of the world are supposed to become successes, supposed to be living proof that hard work pays off and the poor who are born poor and remain poor deserve their lot.

It still eats at Randy, that Darrel hauls roofing while he's headed off to Duke come September. It's not because of merit. It's not because of effort. It's because of the random heartlessness of fate. Darrel will labor the rest of his life and Randy will live in luxury for the same reason Bob's dead, the same reason Johnny's dead: no reason at all. This past week, Randy's learned the true of life: no matter how hard you try, how fast you run, you can't escape the crushing weight of an uncaring universe. People who believe in God are idiots.

Randy starts walking toward the workers. They stare at him. Darrel sees him approach; he realizes who Randy's there for and glares at him.

Randy tries an easy-going smile. "Hey Darrel, do you have a minute?" Randy pulls up the zipper of his jacket. It's getting cold, too cold for outdoor work, maybe. But beads of sweat pool at Darrel's temples.

"I'm a little busy here, if you hadn't noticed." Darrel turns around, headed back towards the twin house. Randy steps in front of him and cuts to the chase.

"When and where's the funeral?" He puts his hand on the beam as if to stop Darrel from turning away again, then decides against the action and places his hand next to his leg. "Johnny's funeral," Randy clarifies.

Darrel eyes him cooly. "Why the hell do you care?"

Randy shrugs. "I tutored him..." he lets his voice trail off. He doesn't want to give anything away. There's no way in hell Johnny told his friends the truth, so Randy doesn't want them to know either. He doesn't want them to think ill of the dead.

Darrel hasn't dropped his hard look. "Tutored him, huh?" he asks, and shakes his head. Like he knows. _Shit. _Randy watches in increasing concern as Darrel lets out a controlled breath, drops the beam down, and turns to his supervisor. "Can I take a five?"

"Make it six and I dock your pay."

Darrel nods; he walks away with Randy across the street towards the Mustang.

"So you and Johnny?" he says, shaking his head again. "I was worried about something like that. Should have known."

"We didn't do anything wrong," Randy answers definitely. "I'm not ashamed." The shame is clamping his throat shut, but he gnaws his teeth, forces those feelings down, forces himself not to hide from what he is. He won't be ashamed.

"Well you should be, you scumbag. I oughta beat you up right now. Taking advantage of a kid like that. Do you have any idea-"

"I never took advantage!" Randy shouts. He lowers his voice when he sees the workers peering over. "Jesus, I know what it's like, and I would never do that to somebody!" he hisses, flustered.

It's not until he catches Darrel's open-mouthed stare that Randy realizes what he's just admitted to. He's never admitted that out loud. He's ever even admitted it to himself before.

The shocked "o" of Darrel's mouth turns into a terse line, and every muscle in his action hero body is somehow more visible.

"I didn't...I didn't know," Darrel says cautiously. "It wasn't...when-" He swallows, perhaps regretting his actions after all these years.

Randy knows the memory is searing in both of their minds right now: almost three years ago, when he walked in on him and Paul, cussed them out in disgust, turned around, and stormed out. Afterwards, Darrel made Randy fully aware of his shunning by cutting him off whenever there was a team meeting. He was less harsh to Paul, maybe because they'd used to be buddies, maybe because Paul'd been in the position of a man.

Randy's tried to forget it.

Paul figured Randy out real quick when he was a freshman. In retrospect, Randy guesses his attempts to hide only made it more obvious: avoiding showering and undressing in front of the other guys, awkwardly backing out of celebratory horseplay after games, laying it on too thick when it came to boasting about girls.

One day, Paul walked into the shower while Randy was washing, long after Randy thought his teammates had left. And that was it. Randy's body reacted in the humiliatingly predictable way, Paul pushed him against the wall and did what he wanted even though Randy didn't want it, or wasn't ready to admit he wanted it. Randy's not sure now; so much of his feelings are confused with what Paul told him to feel. _"Shut up. You like it. You know you like it. Admit it."_ And Paul was right. Once they'd done it enough, he did like it.

Maybe that's why Johnny's submissiveness always bothered him so much. Maybe that's why he wanted to defend the kid against his parents, against his friends. Maybe that's why he still feels the need to take up underdog causes that aren't his own. Putting up a fight for the world will make up for the fact he didn't put a fight for himself.

"No," Randy says quickly. "Don't worry about it. You read that right." That's true. By the time Darrel discovered them, Randy was willing.

Randy shrugs like it doesn't bother him. Considering the events of the past two weeks, his best friend murdered right in front of him by his former..._something_, Johnny dying in goddamn fire saving kids like something out of a story...freshman year sex problems are nothing.

"Look, I came here because I care about Johnny. Same as you," Randy asserts.

"I somehow doubt you and I _cared _about him the same way," Darrel says derisively.

"Can you at least give me the details? Then I'll be on my way. I promise I won't make a scene. I just want to be there. Say goodbye. I'll stand in the back. Leave quietly. Okay?"

Darrel runs his hand through his hair. Randy notices, perhaps for the first time, that it's not greased, it's not long. "I need a drink."

"I've got vodka." Randy gestures to the car, but Darrel shakes his head.

"I don't think there's gonna be a funeral."

"What...what do you mean?" Randy takes a deep breath. There has to be a funeral. There has to be. Otherwise, there's no closure. There's no formal ending to wrap things up in ritual. All that's left is regret. He can't live with regret.

"I've been trying to arrange a joint ceremony–you know our friend Dallas died, too, right?"

Randy nods. He did know, but he'd disregarded the information as soon as he read it. Another JD dead in a shootout. Typical. Boring. Annoyingly sensationalized. The burglar alarm advertisement on the upper right corner of the page was definitely not a coincidence.

"Services are expensive," Darrel continues. "Caskets are expensive. Burial plots are expensive. Tombstones are expensive. Johnny and Dallas never had folks who gave a shit about them, and they left their bodies unclaimed. If I hand't've stepped in, they'd've gone to the state. Been cremated, their remains thrown in some unmarked hole in a potter's field miles outside Tulsa."

Randy reaches for the top button of his shirt, straightens out his collar. That's nothing he's ever thought about: what happens to the poor when they die. Who covers the expenses. It's nothing he's ever had to think about. He's always imagined himself so progressive, because he's concerned about what happens to them when they live. What a joke.

"I wanna give the boys a chance to say goodbye, a place to come visit them in town," Darrel continues. "But I've already forked over my entire savings for the caskets and the plots, and some of it's on credit, too. I had to go buy the outfits they'll get buried in, guess their sizes. And the goddamn tombstone place won't take my credit 'cause I'm young and my income's not high enough. So we don't have markers. And _trust me_, having a conversation with a name on a stone is better than nothing."

Randy thinks of Jenny. His mom's faithful visits, the carefully arranged flowers that always rest against the carving her name. _Beloved daughter, sister, and friend._ Darrel's right.

"And as far as the ceremony goes, I found two ministers who'd be willing to do it for free for Johnny, but the way I see it, it's a joint deal or no deal, and nobody will do it for Dallas, considering how he died. It's all in the papers, so it ain't exactly a secret what happened.

"So yeah. There's probably not gonna be a funeral the way things are looking. And you're not going to get your moment to stand quietly in the back and pretend you knew him like we all did, pretend you have any idea what it's like to live like one of us, pretend you actually cared about about him because you went slumming. Poor little rich kid's gonna have to find a different way to ease his conscience. Too bad for you."

"I'll pay for it." He offers before he even thinks about it. At the moment, he could care less about the hate Darrel's just spewed at him. He could care less about what anyone thinks about him. The one thing on his mind is saying goodbye. Money is not an obstacle.

"What?" It's outrage, and Randy doesn't care about that either. "No. Absolutely not."

"I'll pay for it," Randy repeats. "The ceremony. The tombstones. Flower arrangements. Whatever you need. For both of them." The trust his grandfather set up for him doesn't kick in until he turns eighteen, but he has enough in his personal savings that his father probably won't even notice a withdrawal, even a large one.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," Darrel answers stubbornly. "Because this should be done right. It should be taken care of by their _real_ friends."

"Because you have too much pride," Randy retorts. "You're going to let Ponyboy and all of Johnny's other 'real' friends lose their only chance at saying goodbye because your too goddamn ashamed of being poor? That's pathetic."

"You didn't know him like we did!" Darrel insists.

"You're right," Randy admits. "I didn't. And you didn't know him like_ I_ did."

Darrel gives him a disgusted look. "What did you have to come by here for, shoving that in my face? You trying to ruin the memory of my friend for me? Is that was this is all about? Are you getting even or something?"

"If learning Johnny was queer ruins your memory of him, you were never his friend."

They stare at each other, a stand off. Darrel hitches his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, roughed up and dirty from his work. "He was my buddy. He was a good kid. He was such a sweet, loyal kid, so good to Pony... This thing with you..." he swallows. "It doesn't make sense. He was a good kid." Darrel repeats the last sentence with intensity, conviction, as if combatting the truth of Randy's presence. To Darry–to the whole country–Johnny being a good kid and Johnny a homosexual are mutually exclusive, impossible to fit together.

"I know he was," Randy says quietly. "Look, this thing we had–don't let it... don't let it... All I'm saying is Johnny was a good kid regardless of whatever we had going."

"Christ." Darrel runs his hand through his hair again. "I wish you never came here. I wish I didn't know."

"It doesn't change anything you knew about him," Randy asserts.

Randy puts his hands in his pockets. He knows he looks ridiculous like that, because the pockets are stylized and too small to fit his whole palm inside, but he doesn't want them showing right now. He feels exposed enough as it is. He's never tried to convince anyone (at least, anyone beside himself and Johnny) that it's okay. He knows deep down in his core that there's nothing wrong with it, but he has no way of vocalizing this. No way of standing up for who he is. Who Johnny was. No defense against the word _fag_ if Darrel decides to throw it at him.

Darrel nods. "No, I guess not." He nods again. "Johnny was a good friend." He pinches his lips. "That poor kid had it bad enough, without that hanging over him. Hiding it from everybody-" Darrel's expression changes to a sudden, shocked knowing. "Of course," he says to himself, coming to a private conclusion.

"Of course what?" Randy asks.

"Nothing," Darrel dismisses him quickly. Too quickly. He's hiding something.

"Come on. Of course what?" Randy presses.

"I've just realized...Dallas must have known."

"Dallas Winston? The thug?"

Darrel scowls at Randy for that descriptor.

"No way." Randy shakes his head. "I happened to know that hood tripped Eugene Goldman once at the movie house and threatened to kill him, all because Gene's got a reputation for being a fairy. The fall broke that kid's ankle. Dallas Winston would have killed Johnny if he knew."

But mysteriously, Darrel shakes his head. "He knew. You'd never know it from looking at him, but he was so protective of Johnny. I mean, yeah, he was mean bastard, but he would have died for Johnny-" he pauses, swallows. "I guess, in a way, he did."

Randy crosses his arms. He doesn't know why, but he can feel an uncomfortable anger tensing around his shoulders. "What do you mean?" His words come out controlled, deliberate. "He died in a shoot-out, robbing a store. You said yourself–it's in all the papers. I read it." He doesn't bother keep the disgust out of his voice.

He's not going to change his attitude and suddenly pretend the guy was a saint now that he's dead. Randy made it pretty clear to Johnny when they were both alive what he thought of that hood. He realizes suddenly why he's angry: Johnny idolized the asshole. Randy saw it in the excited way he ran towards Winston's stolen car that time he came to pick him up from school. He saw it later, when Johnny stubbornly insisted they were friends, they were the same. Johnny cared about that Winston boy more than he carried about Randy, and that rankles him, far more than he cares to admit. He shouldn't hold a grudge against the dead.

Darrel looks out into the distance. "He did it on purpose. It was..." Darrel winces, "it was pretty much suicide. He just couldn't take losing Johnny. That gun wasn't loaded. He was faking out so the cops would shoot."

Randy wants to shake his head. He wants to tell him no, that's not possible. There's a protective jealousy that's forming up around his heart. Because if some heartless hoodlum could be heartbroken enough to die over _Randy's_ Johnny, _his_ Johnny, why was Randy still breathing? Still, essentially, okay? Why was life going on for him, with schoolwork and breakfast and lunch and dinner and saying his prayers before bedtime as if nothing had changed?

"They deserve, they deserve to be remembered. To be honored," Darrel admits, reluctantly.

Randy guesses that's as close as Darrel's going to ever get to officially accepting his help. Or more accurately, his money.

"Either of them religious?" Randy asks after a pause. "Do you know what denomination? Johnny never said anything to me about that."

Darrel shakes his head. "I don't think Dally's ever seen the inside of a church besides the one that burned down. Think his old man might've been a lapsed Catholic, though. Johnny, he used to go to a church with Pony for a while. A Methodist one, I already checked up with them to see if they could help. That minister was a complete asshole about Dallas, said he got what he deserved, started raving about hippies or something. Asked if I was saved."

"If you think the denomination would have mattered to Johnny, my family belongs to a Methodist church on the West Side. I'll call, see if the minister's available. He's a good man. What cemetery should I tell him-"

"Rose Hill. Not far from school."

Randy nods at Darrel. "Okay then. I'll need your number. So I can let you know when it's settled. And maybe you could meet up with the minister, give him a story or two to put in his speech..."

Darrel nods at Randy. Randy pulls out a monogrammed fountain pen and one of his father's associates business cards from his wallet. Darrel uses the Mustang roof as a table and scribbles down his number, mouth quirking up in bitterness or amusement (it's impossible to tell) at the pen and card.

"How much did you put on credit?" Randy asks. "I can cover-"

"Don't push it," Darrel interrupts without looking up. He hands him back the pen and card.

Randy nods at Darrel. It's a done deal now, as good as if they'd shaken on it. Darrel turns on his heel to go, but before he reaches the other side of the street, he turns around and jogs back over. He's standing close enough to Randy so he doesn't have to shout, but much further than before. Darrel hitches his thumbs in his jeans pocket.

"Did you love him?"

There's an underlying question there, too: _Can men really love each other like that?_ Randy's well acquainted with the reputation queers have. Revolting sexual deviants, fiends who feel nothing but lust. No intimacy. No relationships. Faggots. Like they're animals instead of men.

But here Randy is, figuring out funeral arrangements, figuring out how to say goodbye, how to let go when letting go is the last thing he wants to do. Randy grasps the handle to the driver's door and looks up at Darrel, hesitating. Not because he doesn't know. Because he's startled by the question.

"Yeah," he answers, defeated and honest. "I loved him." _I love him. _

He sees the look on Darrel's face. It's not contempt anymore. It's relief. Randy guesses he was a good friend to Johnny, after all. Prejudices aside, Darrel wants the comfort of the knowledge that it wasn't just some lustful fling. That Johnny had been loved before he died.

"But he couldn't love me back," Randy continues, not knowing why. Maybe because Darrel is the only other person alive who knows about them. Maybe because he needs to talk, even if it will come back to bite him. "He, he wasn't ready for that. To trust me. And I know I didn't deserve his trust, but it wasn't just that. I mean, well...you know how he was. I loved him, I did. And Johnny...he didn't even love himself."

Shit. He's crying again. He was perfectly fine and now he can feel the tear sliding down his cheek. He wipes it away in frustration, shakes his head at himself. Now Darrel's going to think he's even more of a sissy.

"He was always talking about how dumb he was. What a bad kid he was," Randy rambles on. "That it was wrong to..." Randy gestures vaguely, hoping Darrel gets his meaning. He wipes away another tear. "His fucking parents...I could kill them."

"I know." Darrel's voice is quiet, his face stoic. It is impossible to tell what he is thinking.

"You know, Johnny killed my best friend, and I still love him. I miss him. I miss both of them. I guess I'm kinda messed up, aren't I?"

"There's a lot of that going around," Darrel answers, and Randy hears a twinge of sympathy in his hard, deep voice.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

"Nearer my God to thee, nearer to thee! Even though it be a cross, that raiseth me..."

Having sang in the choir as a child, having won the West Tulsa United Methodist Sunday School Bible Challenge three years in a row (before he was politely asked to stop entering), Randy knows the lyrics by heart. But there is no heart to his voice as he sings them. His throat is soar and dry from two weeks of sobbing, and even if he had wanted to bellow out the tune, he'd humiliate himself: he's one of very few in this rough crowd who possess a passing familiarity with hymns. Most of the mourners gathered in front of him are mumbling along or refusing to sing entirely. Randy doubts these greasers have been to many church services.

"Still, all my song shall be, nearer my God to thee..."

It's the fourth off-tune muttering. They've already sang _I'll Fly Away _(a little too hick for this crowd)_,_ _What a Friend We Have in Jesus,_ and _How Great Thou Art_. The only purpose the songs seem to serve is eliciting the mourners to question why they are bothering with the charade of standing around a hole and singing them.

There is a small, soothing comfort to hearing the familiar songs, to feeling them rumble quietly in his chest. Occasionally, Randy plays hymns for his church when their pianist's arthritis is acting up, and he can almost feel the notes on his fingertips. He's never minded church. Not even after he read _Das Kapital_ and concluded religion is the opiate of the masses. He could use an opiate.

Still, Randy doesn't know how to feel about God. He thinks the idea of an all powerful being that watches over his every move is irrational, if not paranoid. He thinks the idea of heaven, of an afterlife, is a lie created to ease fear of mortality. He wonders what it means that Johnny died because the sanctuary of a church crumbled overtop of him. Randy feels like that should be symbolic of something, but he doesn't know what. He reminds himself that life isn't literature, it's not filled with symbols and foreshadows and signs. It just is. Things just happen. One day, you're worried about failing school, and the next, a church falls on top of you.

Ponyboy, his brothers, and the rest of their greaser crew with their girls are standing up front. The girls' skirts are a respectable length, their makeup subdued, although Randy's not sure if this later is out of respect for the dead or because they knew their mascara would run with their tears. The boys are dressed formally, even if their hair is oiled up and styled in those familiar Elvis swirls. They look strange in suits. It's like Randy's just found himself in a Twilight Zone episode in which there is one small difference in the world that will eventually drive him mad as tries to figure out what that difference is.

A few other greasers and some older cowboy hicks stand a little farther behind, and behind them are married couples–young, middle class, country bumpkin types, incongruent amongst this crowd. They're the only people singing the hymns from memory besides Randy. He overheard two of them whispering under their breaths about what a tragedy it all is, and the way they've been going on sounds like they're relating the plot to an Agatha Christie novel or a daytime soap. Like it's something fascinating and morbid that they just can't wrap their minds around, something that therefore must be fictional.

They're the parents of the kids Johnny saved.

He thought maybe Cherry would come, but she hasn't. Perhaps she didn't even know. Randy should have thought to invite her. He does notice a teacher from school–Randy's never had her, though, she teaches remedial level classes. Randy sees some Lower Class parents in the crowd, but he doesn't recognize Johnny's, and he's privately glad they didn't show. Those bastards don't deserve to be here.

He standing in the very back, just like he said he would. A half hour ago, he saw Johnny's body at the viewing (and that Dallas hood's, too). It's strange how Johnny looked so much like himself, but not at all at the same time. At least he wasn't disfigured, but his hair was wrong: short and un-greased. It made him look younger, more innocent. Randy wondered who had done that, if removing evidence of youth delinquency is a standard procedure, like putting blush on blue cheeks, normalizing the body before it's hidden forever. Johnny looked a wax figure of himself, a painting of himself. Like a shadow cast there, in the casket. And Randy had a surreal, sudden belief that if only he could turn away from this shadow, he would see the true Johnny running up behind him to greet him in full sunlight. Plato's Allegory of the Cave. He shouldn't be reminded of Greek Philosophy at a time like this, but he was. _Even my grief is pretentious, _Randy couldn't help but think with self loathing.

Three dead bodies. He'd wanted to touch Johnny's hand, but he didn't know if that was something people were supposed to do. So he looked down into the casket, on his best behavior, keeping his hands and feet to himself like a child on a field trip. He didn't cry.

Randy listened to words of the people in line before him as they shook the hands of the greasers in the receiving line, standing with cowed heads and folded hands just beyond the caskets. He cringed at the trite "I'm sorry for your loss" coming out of every other mouth, the even more contrived, "they're in a better place now" from the rest. He wanted to do better than that. He wanted to say something true, something profound, something that would imbibe purpose or meaning. But he had no words.

He shook the hand of a stranger, more of a hood than a greaser, more of a man than a boy. He had curly black hair, a crooked nose, and a long scar across the side of his face. The guy's hand deliberately crushed Randy's as it painfully popped his knuckles.

"Who the hell is this?" the hood asked, eyeing Randy cooly, directing his question at Two-Bit, who stood next to him. His voice had an eerie, even calm to it; he spoke with authority, but without inflection.

"He's cool, Shepard. He's cool." But Two-Bit's harsh tone said the exact opposite of his words. The Shepard fellow dropped Randy's hand and nodded curtly. Randy stepped down the line, feeling the wrath of each greaser, each girl, as he went through the motions of handshakes.

When he reached Darrel, strong hand gripped his own in a firm, secure shake, a star quarterback's shake. At least that hadn't changed. A look of private gratitude, of acknowledgment, crossed Darrel's stern, burdened face. He hadn't told the others about Randy financial contribution, and that's fine. Randy didn't want him to. He doesn't want questions asked, Johnny's reputation dragged through the mud like his body's going to be.

Standing there, across from Darrel, their handshake stretching out for an uncomfortably long time, Randy suddenly knew what to say.

"They were brave."

That's the truth. The simple truth. When it came down to it, when it really mattered, a boy who was too afraid to stand up to his folks, too afraid to act on his desires, too afraid to see his own worth, that very same boy ran into the heat of battle and killed to protect his best friend. That very same boy broke into a burning building and saved a half dozen children from the flames. And Dallas, well, Randy can't claim to have known him well, but he ran into a stream of bullets, recklessly, selfishly, bravely.

"They were." Darrel patted Randy on the back in approval, and mysteriously, he added, "Ponyboy chose the epitaph." Darrel smiled to himself, bittersweet, warmth not reaching past the curve of his lips. "Soda had to look it up in the dictionary, but everybody thought it was right."

Next in line was the Curtis brother Randy doesn't know, another weird-named boy, the gas station attendant girls (even goody-two-shoes social club girls) won't shut up about. Randy can see the appeal: he has old-fashioned movie star looks and an impish smile, reminds him of a young Errol Flynn. The Cola kid's arm was wrapped around Ponyboy's shoulder, but Ponyboy was mute, looking away at the caskets without blinking. Randy held out his hand for an uncomfortably long time before he dropped it.

At the end of the receiving line stood Ponyboy, looking smaller and younger in comparison with the rest of the greasers. As Randy stepped forward to go through the farce of shaking his hand, he saw him suddenly, struggling under the water, reaching up and gasping for air. He saw himself, pinning Johnny down to the dirt with one knee, swallowing his guilt as he watched the boy drown. As he did nothing.

If he had only... But there is no going back. That little boy he might have let die because he was too cowardly to say anything, he looked awful. He _looked_ like a little boy. Ahead of Randy, when people had come by to say their condolences, no matter what they said, he just nodded, staring to his left at the bodies. His hospital band was still wrapped around his wrist. His eyes were glossed over, bloodshot, and distant. Slow, silent tears were dripping down his face like they didn't belong to him.

He reminded Randy of a doll Jenny once had. She'd been afraid of it. Actually, they both were afraid of it. The top of its head had a hidden compartment that you could fill up with water, and on the side of its eyes were little holes, so it could cry. Randy hid it in his closet because Jenny was too scared to sleep.

When their palms touched in a weak grip, Randy moved his hand away quickly, as if he'd been shocked. Ponyboy turned his gaze away from the caskets and looked down at his own hand, perhaps only now realizing what he'd been doing. The boy's voice was monotone and dreamy when he said, "I'm sorry I killed your friend."

Randy stood there in shock for a second, turned to Darrel for help, but he was busy speaking quietly with one of the Middle Class mothers.

"Ponyboy, you didn't kill anybody," Randy answered, slowly, carefully.

"Yes I did. I killed Bob. You were there. You know I did." His words were whispered, but they were growing more sloppy and hysterical by the second. "Why doesn't anyone believe me? Randy, tell Soda the truth! You saw it."

Soda put his arm around his little brother and gave Randy a mistrustful glare. "You should keep walking," he said. Randy did, leaving behind him the sound of an older brother's hushed reassurances.

Now that ceremony has begun, now that hymns are nearly finished, Randy is glad to be standing in the back. He thinks he should have skipped the viewing entirely.

"Still all my soul shall be, nearer my God to thee, nearer to thee..."

The song ends, and the minister begins. Randy likes Pastor Davis. He's been with West Tulsa United Methodist since Randy was ten. He's a heartfelt speaker and even beyond the pulpit, he's good to their congregation: every summer he plans the children's Vacation Bible School activities with the all-female staff. He even set up a church baseball team, a yearly international missions trip, and a weekly soup kitchen.

"The dear friends and Mr. Johnny Cade and Mr. Dallas Winston have asked me to thank everyone on their behalf for the flowers, food, and your presence here today. I would like to begin by sharing with you my condolences on the passing of these fine young men. It with a heavy heart that I deliver this message. When a person so young is taken from us, it is difficult not to find anger with God. But God has a plan. He had a plan for these fine boys, and he has a plan for each and everyone on of us.

"While I did not know these boys personally, it obvious how very profoundly they touched those around them, their loved ones and beyond. In their short lives, they accomplished more than many people do who live until they're gray.

"These two heroes taught our community to judge not by appearance but by the testament of character. To judge not by past sins, but by our ability to overcome them. To all the world but those who knew them best, they were dismissed, ignored, mistrusted. And why? For no other reason than the style of their hair and the cut of their pants. And what friendships, what community, what goodness have the rest of us missed out on, because we were too closed-minded to look inside their hearts?

"Too often we judge a man by his worst action, not pausing to consider the circumstances that influenced his hand, not pausing to consider the possibility of his redemption. If we have learned anything from these tragic events, it is to expand our compassion to those we fear, to those we find wanting. And not only because we can save them. It might be the very people we fear who step in and save us.

"How many among us would have sacrificed our own lives to rescue strangers? Like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, these young men had the bravery to face the flames, to face their own mortality, in order to do the right thing. When it mattered, they lived with integrity, in a Christ-like way, whether or not they were Christians. Without their bravery, without their selfless actions, eight small children would no longer be with us.

"But for those left behind, for those who knew them well and loved them well, the pain of loss cannot be fully eased, even by the knowledge of their influence and heroism. I cannot explain to you why God chose for your dear friends to be with Him when He did. I do not know why. We can only put our faith and trust in the Lord and believe He knows better than we do. We can only remember the good times we had with those who are gone. We can only be comforted in the knowledge that they are with God now. That we will see them again one day in heaven.

"For these boys, their friends were their families. I was talking to a few of Johnny and Dallas's close friends the other day, and from the few stories they told, I felt almost as if I knew them personally. As if they were the buddies I'd grown up with myself. The sense of camaraderie, of loyalty, of deep connection this group of young men have for each other is a testament to the ways God brings people together who need each other most. Darrel shared with me a memory and he agreed I could share it with everyone here.

"With the painful passing their parents only months before, Darrel and his two younger brothers were going through a very difficult time. Darrel had decided they would paint the house. It was a warm, sunny day, ripe for summertime adventure, and Sodapop and Ponyboy Curtis were very unhappy about this decision. Resentfully, they splattered on the paint, griped at each other, and wished for the fun, exciting things they could be doing instead of toiling in the sun.

"When Johnny showed up, expecting football or a fight with the hose–you know boys–and instead found squabbling and housework, he didn't bat an eye. Without saying a word, he picked a paint brush and joined in.

"Johnny painted the house carefully, steadily, with an eye at making perfectly smooth strokes. Darrel said it looked like he was painting the Sistine Chapel, so focused he was on doing a good job. Soon, the other boys followed suit, forgetting their bitterness and taking pride in their work. The job became soothing, pleasurable. And out of the blue Johnny looked into the kitchen window and said, 'Remember that time we tried to bake bread, and the dough kept growing and growing inside the oven until your mom had to rescue us from the blob?'

"Sodapop laughed. 'I think we thought the yeast was flour.' And then Sodapop shared a memory of his own. And so it went for days until the house was completed: Johnny came to visit, and outside of every room they painted, the boys shared their memories of those rooms, and the people missing inside them.

"What could have been a mundane, even miserable task was turned into a project they all looked forward to. It became a time for healing. Johnny's quiet wisdom that summer was a rock that brought this family a sense of peace in a turbulent situation. Because in fondly recalling the old memories, they were making new ones. Now, when the Curtis brothers pull up to their home and see the fresh layer of paint on the walls, they have a new memory to recall: those long summer days spent reminiscing with their beloved friend."

Randy closes his eyes. His own memories aren't enough. Not if he can't make more. Not if he can't repair their final break. The pain is too deep, too consuming. He's not ready for memories, but they surface anyway. Johnny sitting close to him in the library, tucking one foot under himself to prop himself up, biting at his fingernails as he tries to figure out an algebraic solution. Johnny underneath him, the cold sting of the bleachers against one palm, the warm heat of Johnny's neck against the other. Johnny beneath him again, in the lot that time he tried to make amends, his hand coming back with blood, his heart pounding in sudden fear and regret.

"Mr. Timothy Shepard would like say a few a words in remembrance of Dallas Winston."

Randy watches as the dangerous hood, the one who practically bruised his knuckles with his handshake, steps forward to give a eulogy. He doesn't express the nervous ticks any other man would have at the moment: he doesn't rub his hands against his pants, or adjust his tie, or wipe imaginary lint off his jacket. He simply takes the stand, and somehow, he appears as though he's looking at Randy directly, like politician or salesman, an expert at public speaking. He's a leader, there's no doubt, and Randy swallows the pain of a sudden, unexpected remembrance of Bob in this hoodlum's stance.

"Dallas Winston was an asshole." There is a hushed, uncomfortable murmuring in the crowd. The Shepard boy continues, loudly over the mumbling. "And he was proud of it. And he damn-well should've been.

"Nobody who met Dally walked away without a strong opinion of him. Nobody who met Dal ever forgot him, and that's a helluva lot more than you can say about most folks. I ain't gonna lie: more often than not, we were at odds. But when it mattered, ol' Dallas was there.

"And you know what he said to me one time after I got in a fight to defend my brother? He said he wouldn't've bothered. Said he didn't care about nobody. That he had to look out for number one. But one time, a friend of his got drunk and broke some windows, and the cops arrested Dal for it. I know Dallas didn't do it, 'cause I was with him that night. You know what Dally did when the cops blamed him? Nothing. He took the sentence and did the time. 'Course he said he took the blame because he needed one more crime to make his rap sheet an even mile long, but we all knew he did it to protect a buddy. He was a good friend. A loyal friend.

"Another time I got into it with some Brumly boys, and I was outnumbered four-to-one. It could have gone real bad if Dallas hadn't've stepped in. Afterwards he made it clear he didn't do it for me. Said he would have left me, but he needed blow off steam. It was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth, and we both knew it. Dallas Winston, he had my back. He had all his buddies' backs, only he liked to pretend he didn't, he liked to pretend he didn't need nobody and nobody needed him.

"I don't think...I don't think I would have ran into that church, maybe not even for a buddy, not like he did. And when he lost Johnny anyway, well...I don't know. I guess he was always looking out for number one. Crazy thing is, number one wasn't him. He didn't put himself first. Guess he had everybody fooled, huh?"

There's a pregnant silence, and the Shepard guy steps back into the crowd.

"These moments," Pastor Davis clears his throat, "these small moments that reveal the true depth of friendship are among hundreds of moments just like them. These memories will be kept and cherished, these memories will ensure that those no longer with us remain alive in our hearts. When you miss your friends, take comfort in the fact that that the pain of their absence means that Johnny and Dallas are not truly dead. They are right there, with you.

"Let us bow our heads for a moment of prayer. Dear Heavenly Father…"

After the prayer are the usual scripture readings. Randy's been to enough funerals–Jenny's and Grandma's and Grandpa's and Aunt Milly's and three elderly acquaintances from church and Bob's–that he knows what to expect. Pastor Davis recites that Romans passage: "I am convinced neither life nor death, neither angels nor demons, neither the present or the future, nor any powers...will be able to separate us from the love of God..." He reads several Psalms. And then the Reverend opens his Bible, he looks out and recites from heart the standard, fail-proof lines of Ecclesiastes, chapter three. "To everything there is a season…" Randy can't help but hear the tune of The Byrds accompany Pastor Davis's words. _To everything turn, turn, turn… _He tries to shut the sound of the song out of his head.

Finally the service is over. The speeches, the singing, the prayers, the verses. Randy waits his turn as mourner after mourner places a single flower on top of each closed casket. Yellow tulips. Traditionally it's roses or carnations. Randy doesn't know why he ordered yellow tulips. It was a irrational decision, made suddenly in the midst of speaking to the florist. The tulips seemed fitting somehow. They still do, now that he seems them there, a golden sunshine to cover Johnny. He doesn't even chastise himself for being cheesy.

As Randy drops his flowers, he notices the headstone. A wide, joint headstone. Simple, unadorned, sturdy, honorable. The epitaph:

_Dallas Winston Johnny Cade_

_November 9 1948-December 9 1966. March 1 1949- December 9 1966._

_They were gallant. _

And they were.

Randy watches the caskets lower into the plot.

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Author's Notes:

I'm sorry this chapter took so long to post. Because of the painful subject matter, it was very difficult for me to write. I appreciate your waiting and your readership. Please let me know how you feel! I'm uncertain about Tim's voice… I may decide to go back and tweak that part.

You may have noticed an inaccuracy with the headstone dates. I used the characters' official birthdays, but when I started writing "The Learning Curve," I was unaware that (it is generally agreed) the events of the book happen in September. I had to stick with my own timeline, with Randy tutoring Johnny in September, leading up to the book's events in early December. Sorry if this caused any confusion.


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